Happiness Elude
by Kali Cephirot
Summary: T minus six hours, fourteen minutes, fifty two seconds for the end of the world to start and regret tastes like bile in Rabi's mouth................... AllenRabi, one shot, FINISHED.


**Happiness Elude.**  
_I can't remember when it was good  
moments of happiness elude  
maybe I just misunderstood  
"Falling Away With You" Muse_

Allen catches the ball barely lifting his – left - hand to do so, and then he changes it to the right hand to make it bounce against the wall and towards him, even though he is ambidextrous.

Rabi catches the ball and throws it with the same hand, his left.

Thump, thump.

"There was a place in Greece that I liked a lot," Rabi answers, voice slow, eyes focused on the way the ball bounces, not even turning to look towards Allen.

Allen's a warm line besides him, their legs stretched upon the floor, Timcampi resting over his knee. They've been sitting down on the floor long enough that it's gone warm and Rabi's muscles are complaining but he can ignore that.

"I dunno, it was real nice, y'know? Warm. Fuckin' amazing sunrises, that's for sure, it was as if the ocean was burning. I always kinda wanted to go back there," Thump, thump. "You?"

Allen catches the ball, changes it to his right hand but pauses a moment before he makes it bounce against the floor-then-wall, and Rabi lifts his hand as it bounces towards him. As long as he keeps on looking towards the ball, then it's okay.

"I never caught the name of the village, or where it was. The first Christmas after Mana found me, we were there. It... I don't know. I don't remember much of it. Still..."

Rabi makes a soft humming noise, catches the ball once more, throws it once more, pays attention only to the soft sound the ball makes as it bounces against the ancient stones of the headquarters and he definitely doesn't pay attention to the sound of rushing footsteps, nor to the tic-tac his subconcious seems to be carrying on, telling him just how much time they have before they go to the final battle, before half or more of the order goes out there to die.

He throws the ball again, lets Allen catch it. Rabi raises a hand – right – to rub at his left eye, a part of his brain still unused at not finding the eyepatch, a part of him still missing Panda.

It's the end of the world, must keep both eyes open.

Allen waits until he's done, says nothing at the pause as the ball thumps against the wall again, as Rabi catches it, throws it again. T-minus-six-hours-fourteen-minutes-fifty-two-seconds, he knows. They should be sleeping because damn if they won't need it, the rest. They could even go and ask for booze or painkillers to get to sleep and no-one in headquarters would say no. Not today. Not right now.

Rabi considers the idea of half the exorcists to hungover to fight and he snorts, the aftertaste of rum still heavy on his tongue. He vaguely considers getting up and going for water, his ass numb from the hard tiles, his back aching for the way he has been slumped there for the last three-hours-and-twenty-one-minutes. He wonders if Allen's numb too, even though he has been an hour less sitting by his side.

He throws the ball a little harder than he should, makes it bounce a little higher than it ought to, but Allen still catches it and he says nothing, passing it to his right hand, lifting his right hand and then pausing. Rabi doesn't see him even though he could, perhaps, if he wanted: from the corner of his – right – eye he could watch the way Allen ponders about whatever question he's thinking about making, follow the curve of the scar over his cheek, or the way Allen might bite his lip if it's a serious question.

Allen throws the ball. Thump, thump.

"Something you always wanted to do and never did?"

Reflex makes him catch the ball and then drop his hand still holding it, not turning to look at Allen but frowning. If he wanted, Rabi knows he could pinpoint exactly the places where the ball has hit for the last hour and a half they've been throwing it, though he can't be sure if it was him who had the ball or if it was Allen who had it, and he's not sure who started throwing it either.

Thump goes the ball against the floor. Thump against the wall. Allen catches it silently.

If a world of things could fit into one sentence, Rabi would be able to say something. Regret tastes like bile in his mouth and he swallows, says nothing because it's the only safe answer when they're like this, sitting down on the floor with their bodies going numb, with T-minus-six-hours-and-one-minute before all their cards go up and out, when Allen is a warm line pressed against his body. He makes himself look only upon the ball-catch-throw sequence, makes himself ask as if he had answered, voice rough:

"You?"

He throws the ball. Thump, thump. Allen catches it but then he puts it down, shifts from where he had been sitting, puts Timcampi down unto the floor and then Allen shifts to his knees, wincing in the way that means that his body did went numb, too, and that would've made him snicker if not for the fact that even if he doesn't look, Allen is looking at him now.

"Rabi," Thump, thump. Really bad idea, drinking before the end of the world and all, knowing that all that drinking does is make him even more aware of things.

Despite knowing better, Rabi turns to look.

It's - probably – the last day of the world and Allen's face is a warm weight upon his hand as they kiss; his back hurts as Allen presses against him – right hand on his shoulder, left hand warm and rough against his neck - and Rabi shifts as he opens his mouth for Allen's tongue, and that's one less regret of many, one less thing-that-never-happened to carry on to the battlefield, something that's even not entirely too late.

Allen is warm when he touches his shoulders, his back; he shifts to get close and Rabi thinks for a moment about going to a room, to any room as they press closer and they should, really, even more than he thinks that they really shouldn't be doing this. This'll cause promises that will be - probably – broken even though they should know better, or at the very least he should.

Still, it's T-minus-five-hours-and-forty-seven-minutes and Rabi decides to focus on that and on the way Allen touches his back and waist, on the way he can feel his heart thumping, because at the moment, that's enough. 


End file.
